


Sleepless in Lebanon

by Amelia_Clark



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Body Worship, Bottom!Cas, Bunker Fic, Domestic Castiel/Dean Winchester, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, Feelings, Foreplay, In the criminal justice system, Insomnia, M/M, Slow and Sweet, my husband's other suggestion for the title was "No Sleep Til the Bone Zone", the people are represented by two separate yet equally important groups, top!dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-20
Updated: 2013-11-20
Packaged: 2018-01-02 04:33:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1052568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amelia_Clark/pseuds/Amelia_Clark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean’s awakened by a sonorous voice and a familiar double thump. “Mmmph,” he groans into the pillow. “Cas, are you watching <i>Law & Order</i> again?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleepless in Lebanon

Dean’s awakened by a sonorous voice and a familiar double thump. “Mmmph,” he groans into the pillow. “Cas, are you watching _Law & Order_ again?”

"I find the punishment of evildoers soothing," says Cas sulkily.

Dean props himself up on one elbow and checks his phone on the nightstand—it’s 2:28 AM. "So you can't sleep, huh?" 

"No!" gruffs Cas. "This makes no sense to me, Dean. First I'm supposed to waste nearly a third of my life unconscious, and then I can't even _do_ it when required!"

OK, turning over and going back to sleep is not an option, then. Dean sits up, running hands over his face blearily and wondering why supportive boyfriend time never seems to occur during broad daylight. “Did you have coffee after dinner?”

“No.” Cas pauses Lennie Briscoe’s one-liner and folds his arms, making a face he must’ve learned from Sam. “I remember that caffeine is a stimulant. I’m not a _child_ , Dean.”

“I know you’re not a child. You just—you sort of _are_ , though. In a way. I mean you haven’t been human that long, so it’s understandable you’d forget stuff sometimes.” He smirks. “Like that you can’t drink a liquor store anymore.”

Cas tries very, very hard not to smile. “True. How did you so eloquently put it? I'm a ‘cheap date’?”

Indeed, Cas's whiskey-fueled blowjob a few weeks ago wasn’t the most proficient Dean's ever received, but certainly the most surprising—not least because it took place under the library table while Sam was in the shower. He reciprocated later that evening in the kitchen, during the wait for pasta water to boil, and they've fucked at every opportunity since.

And there's an idea. Closing the six-inch gap between them, Dean ducks his head to circle one of Cas's nipples with his tongue, his hand searching beneath the covers to squeeze the other man's thigh. "I could tire you out," he says huskily.

Cas swats him away. "Just because you try to solve all your problems with orgasms doesn't mean I want to," he snaps.

"Uh, that's harsh." Dean draws back. "I'm just trying to help."

"I know. I know you are. It's—just— _fucking_ —“

And to Dean’s utter consternation, the former angel bursts into tears.

Not, like, a single manly tear at the insupportable state of the world, either. No, this is toddler-lost-in-a-shopping-mall crying—full-on, shuddering sobbing.

“Hey, whoa, Cas! Baby, sweetheart, it’s OK,” Dean’s babbling—he does _not_ know how to deal with this, but he moves on instinct, pulls Cas onto his lap, surrounds him with arms and legs and as much of himself as he can. “Shhh, shhh, it’s OK,” he croons, stroking his dark hair and his vulnerable shoulders. “This isn’t really about insomnia, is it?” he asks quietly.

“It’s all of it, Dean, this, this— _fucking mortality_ , I do not know how you do this every day. My feet and my back hurt all the time, and I think I need reading glasses, and I can’t do laundry or work the dishwasher or cook a meal without burning something or leaving something else raw and _my nose is leaking this horrible fluid and I CAN’T FUCKING SLEEP!!!_ And you say you love me, Dean, but you just can’t. This isn’t what you fell in love with, I was _strong_ and _brave_ and _powerful_ and now I’m just, I’m just…I am nothing but dregs. Leftovers.”

Dean’s stunned by this outburst, and it’s a moment before he can respond, lifting Cas’s stricken face to his and darting out his tongue to taste the salt of a tear caught in the corner of his lips. “To quote a great man,” he whispers, “you, Cas, are an _idjit_.”

He’s leaning back in, but Cas stops him. “Don’t kiss me now,” he sniffles, “not when I’ve got this _mucus_ all over my face.”

Dean shrugs. “Blood, sweat, come, snot. ‘Swhat I’m trying to say, Cas, I don’t _mind_.” He pulls his undershirt over his head, holds it out. “Here, blow your nose.” Cas does so, making a moue of distaste at the undignified honk that results; Dean just smiles and wipes his thumbs across the damp half-circles under Cas’s eyes, letting his hands drift down to flank his jaw.

“Look, Cas, I’m not gonna explain this right, cause I’m half-asleep and I’m not good at this shit anyway. But I absolutely do not think of you as _leftovers_. Not once. I’m not gonna pretend the angel stuff wasn’t awesome, and really fucking useful a lot of the time—but _all_ the angels could do that stuff, and they were still mostly assholes. You’re the one I fell for. Because you’re _you_.”

This time Cas lets the kiss happen, quiet and soft, like talking up close. “And besides,” Dean murmurs, “before, we couldn’t’ve ever been equals, you had all this power I didn’t. That’s not how, uh, that’s not how relationships are supposed to work.”

“You consider this a relationship?”

Dean shifts awkwardly, then grins. “Dude. _Yes_. We’re in bed talking about _feelings_ , for crying out loud. You’re my freaking adorable fallen angel boyfriend, and if you need more proof, I’ll give you a goddamn foot massage.”

“That sounds extremely pleasant,” says Cas, and he swings his legs out from under the blanket into Dean’s waiting lap.

“Hell yeah. I’ve been picking up waitresses since I was fifteen years old—I give _world-class_ foot massages.” Cas hums in contentment as Dean presses both thumbs firmly along his right instep.

Dean lifts his foot by heel and ankle and rotates gently in one direction, then the other, points it forward, flexes it back till there’s a slight pop in the joint. He's working his way across the fleshy pads at the base of Cas's toes when he realizes this is the first time he's touched Cas's feet at all. There's a healing blister on one heel from walking too many miles in Jimmy Novak's ill-fitting dress shoes. Dean's eyes travel up over Cas's barely-clothed body, propped up on a truly ridiculous number of pillows, his eyes closed and the corners of his mouth turned up. There's really a lot of Cas he hasn't touched, that he's skipped over in the rush to get to the good parts. (In his defense, the good parts are very good.)

And suddenly that seems unfair. After all, Cas rebuilt him from the ground up when he raised him from the pit; he knows Dean at the molecular level. Obviously he can't be that thorough, but he can try. 

The difference being that he plans to take Cas apart, piece by piece. 

He drifts one hand up onto the blade of Cas's shin. "Hey. Can you do something for me? I want you to hold still while I touch you."

"You are touching me," mumbles Cas.

"Right, but I'm gonna keep doing it. Everywhere. And not just with my hands. You relax, I appreciate. Sound good?"

Cas cracks one eye open. "Will you finish my feet first?"

Dean chuckles. "Told ya I was good. Yeah, the foot rub's included."

"Good." Cas shuts his eyes again. "In that case, proceed."

Pleased that Cas has successfully transitioned from miserable to magnanimous, Dean does, giving Cas's left foot the same treatment before lifting it briefly to mouth at his toes. This earns him a yelp and a near-kick to the face; he tightens his grip on Cas's ankle. "I said hold still, Cas, that means try not to break my nose."

"I'm sorry. That was odd."

"Bad odd or good odd?"

"Is 'neutral' a choice?"

"Sure. Can't know whether you like something unless we try it." Dean files away that data—toe-sucking, not a huge turn-on, but not a dealbreaker either—and runs his hand up one calf. “If I do something you really want me to do again, let me know.”

Dean catalogs: shinbone, sharp beneath the skin. Lean calves, muscled from walking. Cas's legs are furrier than his own, the hair worn off in irregular patterns by friction with fabric. Knees: Dean tests their backs for ticklishness, fingers first and then tongue—Cas twitches a bit at the latter, one side of his mouth quirking up. "That's nice," he murmurs.

"I can deal with 'nice,'" says Dean, trailing open-mouthed kisses up his flank and tugging his boxers down and off. This is more familiar territory, so he doesn't linger long, though he does give in to the urge to take the stark angle of one hip between his teeth, sucking until he’s raised a flush that will turn into a bruise. He runs his knuckles casually up the underside of Cas's hard-on, laughing out loud at the whine Cas gives when he doesn't go on to wrap his palm around it. "Be patient," he says. “I know you like it when I touch you there—just trying to expand my horizons.”

“That seems wholly unnecessary, suddenly,” says Cas, shuddering as Dean licks into the crease of his thigh before resting his cheek for a moment on the yielding flesh of Cas’s stomach, enjoying the heat of his cock against his throat. Then he methodically traces every rib with his tongue, hands stroking down Cas’s sides, while the other man pants and tries not to writhe. He’s not entirely successful, so Dean uses his own body weight to pin him down, matching limb to limb, twining their fingers together and rocking them onto their sides.

He kisses Cas's chin, the tip of his nose, the corners of his mouth. He runs his thumbs along his jaw, his cheekbones, up to his temples, over the arch of his eyebrows. He brushes his lower lip against the flutter of his lashes; he drops tiny, chaste kisses across the expanse of his forehead, a long-forgotten memory surfacing of his mother doing the same as she put him to bed, saying that she would "kiss away the bad dreams." 

If only.

Cas just holds on to his shoulders, chest heaving unsteadily with his breath. "You said your back hurts too, right? Turn over," Dean whispers into his ear, catching the lobe with his lower lip, a quick caress that draws out a shaky moan as Cas rolls prone.

Dean straddles him, glad he's still got boxers on—the feeling of Cas's ass pressed against his groin is distracting enough, and without that thin layer of fabric there's no way he wouldn't just skip to the big finish. As it is, he has to take a slow, deep breath before he trusts himself to put his hands on Cas again.

But he does, of course: flattens his palms over the planes of his back, drags a knuckle slowly up the notches of his backbone, before he begins to knead the muscles in earnest.

"Jeez, your shoulders are like rock. Just holding everything there, huh?"

“Mmmrrph,” Cas says into a fleece-filled sham, then, turning his head, “That feels _incredible_ , Dean. I think you should do this every night from now on.”

Dean laughs, working his elbow into a stubborn knot. "Uh, we'll negotiate."

"I'd be grateful," purrs Cas, grinding his hips back into Dean's erection.

"Hey," Dean warns, "twitch that ass at me again without permission, and it's getting slapped."

Cas does it again, naturally, so Dean's got no choice but to make good on his promise, delivering a sound smack to one lily-white cheek. Cas jumps and lets out a high-pitched squeak that would be ridiculous if it weren't so goddamn sexy.

"I would not mind if you did that again," says Cas, evidently surprised.

"Really? That's good to know." Dean obliges, once, with a little more power behind it—enough to leave a hand-shaped welt, not quite as impressive as the one Cas left on his shoulder all those years ago. He rubs the mark gently to soothe the sting.

Cas props himself up on his elbows and looks back at Dean. "Would you kiss me, please?"

"Soon," says Dean, "I'm almost done. I think I'm down to just your arms, right?" He flops down on his side next to Cas so he can grab one hand, lifting it to his mouth to kiss and suck his fingers.

"Dean," Cas says, pulling away slightly, "it's OK. I get it."

“What do you mean? Get what?”

“What you’re doing. You’re trying to ground me in this body, to show me how good it can feel to be human. I get it and I appreciate it and that's why I'm begging you to fuck me."

That part of Dean's brain that likes to pretend he's in control wants to say "Begging, huh? Doesn't sound like it to me," but the lion's share, made helpless and awestruck by love (aided by the argument of his whole body, singing wherever it touches Cas's) just stammers "You make a good point," before leaning in to fit their mouths together.

Cas tastes like toothpaste and tears and Sleepytime tea, lips slow and warm as they move against his. Dean sighs as the other man's tongue slides, slippery and strong, over and into his mouth, entangling with his own.

They're too sleepy to be frantic, so their pace stays languid: lush kisses, soft moans, gentle touches. It takes both of them to get Dean's boxers off, Cas reaching in to cup his cock when it catches on the elastic. Dean thrusts into his hand with a muffled groan, grabs a handful of ex-angel ass. “You want me to top again, right?” asks Dean breathlessly, and Cas just nods against his forehead, stroking him with lazy intensity.

The lube’s conveniently cached beneath Cas's nest of pillows; reaching for the bottle, Dean always feels like he's in the porn version of "The Princess and the Pea." (Which he’s seen. The plot’s as predictable as its title.)

Without taking his mouth off of Cas's, Dean wrangles the cap open with both hands, then runs one finger the entire length of his spine, from the column of his neck to the point of his tailbone, and keeps going--no inward pressure, no force, just grazing the pucker of Cas's entrance. The other man shivers at the touch and hitches his leg up over Dean's hip to give him better access; Dean slicks up his fingers, massaging in circles until one slips in with little resistance. Cas yelps and bites his lip, which is always a good sign.

Dean actually doesn’t have a lot of experience with anal—generally you have to have sex with a woman more than once before she’s down for it—but Cas has taken to the butt stuff like a duck to water, and since Dean feels like a god whenever he gets Cas off, he does his best. He asks a lots of questions, “There?” and “Harder?” and “You like that?” and Cas will stammer or moan in return. It’s been a decent system so far.

Right now he's got two fingers knuckle-deep in Cas's ass, zeroing in on his prostate, still kissing him like the fate of the world rests on their joined mouths. Cas's own hands are busy, too, aligning their cocks in parallel and taking hold, working up a velvet friction that's just on the edge of too much—Dean makes a very small and kittenish noise that anyone else would mock him for, but Cas just smiles against his lips and keeps up the rhythm. That is, until Dean finds the spot he's looking for and beckons, and Cas growls, contrabass, and clutches at Dean's bicep.

"Mmm, good, more, Dean, please," the commas deep, shuddering breaths as Dean adds a third finger, relishing the sensation of Cas's body opening to him, letting him in greedily.

"Ready?" he asks a few moments later, and Cas just seizes him by the waist and rolls onto his back, knees nestled on either side of his chest. Dean fumbles for the lube again to prime his cock, then pushes in an inch at a time until he's sheathed to the hilt in that tight warmth, dropping his head onto Cas's shoulder with a sigh.

"Oh God, baby, you feel so good. I don't even wanna move, I just wanna stay here all the way inside you for hours."

Cas digs his nails into Dean's shoulder blade and rumbles, "If you don't move, I'll kill you." When Dean doesn’t respond right away, he grabs his hipbones like handles and pushes up, drawing Dean out halfway, so he’s got no choice but to sink back in, rolling his abdomen against Cas’s own rock-hard cock.

They pass the point where words are possible, where even inarticulate sounds are needless, because they’re so close together, so wrapped up in each other’s bodies, that it’s the tiny changes in breath, the minute twitches of muscle, that pull them along. Dean thrusts slowly, dragging his length against Cas’s prostate, kissing and licking everywhere he can reach until Cas throws his head back and gasps _“Yes, Dean,"_ before spilling into the space between them. The sudden clench sends Dean over the edge himself; he croons Cas’s name into the crook between neck and shoulder, tangling his hands in his mussed black hair.

It takes Dean a minute to catch his breath, and by then he realizes Cas is sound asleep, still impaled on his cock. “Hmph,” he mutters. “Tired you out after all.” 

Dean, on the other hand, is wide awake, but that’s what TV is for. After cleaning up as best he can (he might as well just wash the sheets every day), he kisses Cas’s forehead, gently—and since no one’s awake to hear him, he whispers, “Love you, angel. Sweet dreams.”


End file.
